


Sweet Dreams 'Til Sunbeams

by beetle



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reordered Quest Timeline, Angst, Boys In Love, Brave Toaster-faces, But he looks DAMNED GOOD in a leather duster, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Falling In Love, Feelings of Emotional Infidelity, First Kiss, First Love, Flirting, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Hancock has enough Nate-awareness and Nate-familiarity to play the long-game, Hancock is a triple-threat for REASONS, He's also a terrible cook, Heartache, Heartbreak, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Past Racism, Mentions of kidnapped child, Mutual Pining, Nate has just enough self-awareness and self-consciousness to make himself miserable, Past-Nate/Nora, Period-Typical Racism, Power Dynamics, Pre-John Hancock/Male Sole Survivor, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Romance, Survivor Guilt, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mentions of shaun - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 23:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17949533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: On the road from Diamond City to Park Street Station, to locate Nate’s best hope for finding Shaun, Nate Bridges and John Hancock hit an unexpected snag.Silence. Namely, John’s: distracted, brooding, and highly unusual.Nate’s not much of a talker, but if talking’s what it takes to help his best friend, then he’ll find some words.Right ones. Somehow.For Ashcroft_Writes . . . a kindred, simpatico spirit—and my person from another person—if ever there was one. Enjoy, my friend <3





	Sweet Dreams 'Til Sunbeams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashcroft_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashcroft_Writes/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Strong Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268114) by [Ashcroft_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashcroft_Writes/pseuds/Ashcroft_Writes). 



> Notes/Warnings: Set during “Unlikely Valentine,” on the road from Diamond City, to Park Street Station. Post-“The Big Dig” and other Hancock-given or related quests (except “In Sheep’s Clothing”), which THIS Nate completed before “When Freedom Calls” and “Jewel of the Commonwealth.” Also set before “Road to Freedom,” for what that’s worth. Vague spoilers for previous quests and details of John Hancock’s not-quite-canon backstory, if you squint. Mentions of grief/mourning, the death of a spouse, and the kidnapping of a child. Damaging self-talk, humility bordering on low self-esteem. A Mentat-fueled confession/declaration. NO DOGMEAT . . . YET. I could be convinced to write a follow-up encompassing “Getting a Clue,” and a little after, that would feature Nate recruiting our favorite canine companion.

“So . . . I’m feeling like something’s up,” Nate Bridges finally said, up-pitching his voice a bit, to be heard over the desolate-lonely warble of the fall wind.

 

It was the beginning of a third evening of brooding silence from his usually boisterous companion . . . the erstwhile Mayor of Goodneighbor, John Hancock. After two nights of somehow _itchy_ quiet, Nate wasn’t about to sit through a third. It’d taken him from striking camp at the last of sunset, to full-dark and a sickle-moon to screw his courage to the sticking-place. The leftovers of a pretty lean haunch of molerat were still on their makeshift spit—and mostly because Nate’d had to put two-thirds of it away himself.

 

Normally, for someone who didn’t _need_ to eat, John ate whatever was set before him enthusiastically, whether it was hastily boiled tatoes or whatever the local _vermin du jour_ turned out to be.

 

(Though, as they’d found out, Nate was a far better seat-of-his-pants cook than John was. And John, with his near-perfect aim, steadiness, and speed, was a far better hunter-of-dinner.)

 

But the past couple nights, though, he’d seemed bound and determined to test the limits of living off ambient rads and frequent chems.

 

Nate might not have even noticed, but for John having a lot of the same mood-tells as Nora’d had. And abstaining from eating completely or almost? That’d meant the kind of mood that Nate had to do his best to head-off at the pass or just settle on the be-a-shit-husband life-path. And though he wasn’t John’s husband—or _anyone’s_ husband, anymore—he was certainly obliged to be a comfort to and maybe even lift the mood of the most important person he had left.

 

No matter _Nate’s_ mood, _Nora_ had never deserved less than the best. And that’d included having a husband who was always willing to step-up his game when necessary. John Hancock deserved the same, even if from a mere . . . friend. And Nate’s own continuing grief and trauma aside, he hadn’t been able to stop, once he’d drawn even one parallel between Nora and the charming, bad-rude ghoul sitting next to him . . . hunched close-up to the fire-pit as if he wasn’t throwing off enough rads to permanently lower Nate’s sperm-count and muddle his DNA.

 

In the weeks they’d been Walking together, the drawing hadn’t stopped _or_ slowed down. It’d accelerated, in fact. To the point that now, as he snuck glances at John’s withered, irradiated face— _still_ handsome and _emotive_ , somehow, despite the ravages of a decade-plus as a ghoul—Nate’s heart fluttered and flailed in his chest, the way it always had for Nora from the day they’d met.

 

But especially when she was upset and hurting, in a way Nate might be able to . . . help, if not fix.

 

It wasn’t long before Nate gave up all attempts at surreptitious glances and just flat-out stared, taking-in John’s profile. Under the ever-present tricorn, the elegant plane of forehead and subtle curve of brow led to a pretty distinct lack of nose. But after the first few minutes of shock the night they’d met, that lack had simply been what it was. It hadn’t taken away from John’s unusual attractiveness and charisma. Neither had the exposed sinews and muscles of that intriguing face, dried by permanent irradiation and exposure to elements. Even months into their friendship, Nate often found himself recalling in idle moments, and even when John was right next to him, the slight curve of John’s barely-padded cheekbone. The sharp-square angle and fine, but _stubborn_ line of his jaw. The movie-cowpoke nobility of his chin.

 

But it was the eyes . . . John’s eyes really got to Nate. They always seemed large and liquid-bright. Liquid-dark. Timeless and eternal, and deeper than universes. But, even better than all that . . . kind and warm and amused.

 

Like many things about John, those eyes reminded Nate of Nora—not by their shape or color, but by their. . . sensibility. And their ability to mesmerize and capture Nate, and make surrendering to that gaze a divine reward. A rest and renewal.

 

A return home, even.

 

Nate looked away for a few moments, during which he poked at the aching, still-bleeding wound in his heart that was occupied by the memory of Nora, rather than the fact and _reality_ of her.

 

He’d gotten that sort of home, once, already. With Nora. The kind of home that was always with one, no matter how far the roaming, so long as the person one loved and _was loved by_ was safe, alive, and happy. Nate hadn’t ever expected to get that sort of home, even once. So, to let his heart hope for a _second_ chance at it was . . . beyond selfish. It was stupid. Greedy.

 

And even if it wasn’t, John deserved better than the creepy obsession of a man who not only looked for his dead wife in living people, but _found her_. And let his heart wallow in the confusion of falling in love with the illusion of someone already loved and lost. Someone who would never return in any shape or form or way.

 

John deserved the _best_. The best _friend_. And Nate would never give up striving to be exactly that.

 

“Please, tell me what’s wrong, John,” he murmured, leaning close enough to nudge John’s bony-prominent shoulder with his own. John sorta-smiled: a slow crook of his spare, but mobile mouth and the exposed muscle surrounding it that made Nate’s trained-chimp of a heart go haywire. Squinching his eyes shut for a few agonized moments, he apologized silently and profusely to Nora—not for the first time this day or even this evening. Just for the first time since the _last time_ he’d snuck helpless glances at John Hancock over dinner tonight. “ _Please_. Lemme help, if I can.”

 

“Ahhhh,” John half-laughed, half-sighed, and leaned into Nate. “I’d say you’ve done more than your fair share of helpin’, Vault-Dweller. And not just helpin’ _me_. Half the ‘Wealth’s singin’ your praises and the other half’s startin’ to listen. You’re a star, brother.”

 

“Mehhh.” Nate didn’t shrug, but only because John lingered at the leaning just long enough that Nate’s undiscriminating body began reacting in ways it only ever had for Nora—at least in terms of persistence and intensity of its response. The gesture, from gentle impact to continued contact, brought a concentrated waft of John’s scent, like autumn-smoke-gunmetal, straight to Nate’s olfactory sense and knocked it pleasantly flat. Left it dazed. Then proceeded to do the same to the rest of Nate . . . including all his hard-won defenses. All of them. Even his Kevlar grief over Nora and his refusal to indulge in the hope that their precious Shaun might _still_ —

 

Nate grimly pushed every thought out of his mind—all of them, except his genuine desire to be as good a friend to John Hancock as John Hancock had been to him for the past couple months they’d been Walking and cleaning up the Commonwealth. And even before that.

 

“You’re a real good guy, Nate. A true friend— _family_ , even.” John made that laugh-sigh sound again, quiet and trailing-off. Sad, too. “Not a lotta folks I’d say that about, these days—at least, not and mean it as a good thing. For the longest, it’s basically been just Fahr. She’s a helluva person, in spite of her Ma. In spite of _me_. But you? You’re . . . you’re somethin’ else entirely, brother. Somethin’ _rare_ . . . and true.”

 

He finally shot Nate a measuring glance, and a half-smile that widened at Nate’s gobstruck expression. The exposed sinews and muscle that created that smile weren’t a thing Nate had to look past to find the smile rakish and magnetic . . . swoon-worthy. The butterflies in Nate’s stomach hadn’t paid-up their rent six months in advance because of a bunch of _despites._

 

John Hancock had doubtlessly been a _handsome_ man before being ghoulified, and was _still_ handsome. The ghoul-look simply rendered him striking, as well. At least to Nate.

 

“Hell,” John rumbled, but quietly, sounding almost flummoxed. “I’d trust ya with my life, my town, _and_ my caps, and already have. Haven’t regretted it and I doubt I ever will.”

 

Nate’s chuckle huffed and burbled out of him, slightly winded and bringing vaguely heartburn-y reminders of their overcooked, under-seasoned dinner. Between that and his fierce, but thankfully invisible blush, the chilly autumn night felt like a balmy mid-June. Even the frantic flail and whip of mostly-dead branches—and the creak of the trees that surrounded the tiny-bare bald-patch where they’d set up camp—couldn’t belie the heat in Nate Bridges’s marrow and veins, and directly under his skin. “This, ah, despite my ‘shit skills at haggling,’ end quote? Uh-huh. Fibber.”

 

John chuckled, too, low and slow. “Weeeeell, y’aint the savviest shopper, I’ll grant. But you’re gettin’ there. And luckily, I’m not _hurtin’_ for caps, all-told. But, learn a little faster, wouldja? My pockets’re gettin’ awful light, lately.”

 

“A fibber _and_ a cheapskate, Mayor Hancock? Wow. So . . . what’s your third thing—there _is_ a third thing, right? I mean, don’t stop until you’re a _triple_ -threat,” Nate advised, rolling his eyes. John smirked, leaning in closer. Close enough that Nate’s breathing hitched some and he noticed the scent of berries surrounding him like a faint fog.

 

(John’d been all but mainlining Berry Mentats for three days, doing two of the three things John Hancock was best known for: dedicated chemming and _deep thinking_.)

 

“Well, brother . . . even just _half_ -hard, my cock’s thicker than your left wrist.” Still smirking, he brought his warm, dry hand to rest on Nate’s afore-mentioned left wrist, eliciting a sudden and profound frisson that Nate couldn’t hide. John’s smirk widened with both smugness and consideration. “How’s _that_ for a third thing, Vaultie? Feelin’ threatened, yet?”

 

After more gobstruck gaping—and a blush so fierce that yeah, maybe it was enough to defeat dark of night _and_ of complexion—Nate cleared his throat and darted his gaze anywhere and everywhere but at a keenly observant John.

 

“I, uh. Um. Wow, John, that’s, uh . . . that’s a helluva third thing,” Nate acknowledged in a voice that sounded absurdly high and breathless to him. Probably more so to John, with his perception chemically cranked-up by the Mentats. “Though, it might technically be equivalent to fourth _and_ fifth things, as well as a third. From a size standpoint, I mean. . . .”

 

John burst out laughing, his hand and gaze shifting as he rocked back and forth. He even slapped his knee a few times.

 

Though smiling, and happy to have distracted his friend—for more reasons than one—Nate was mostly relieved for the shift and lessening of John’s singular focus on him. Even without Mentats, John Hancock was intimidatingly observant, perceptive, and intelligent. Those were traits that Nate had always admired and been drawn-to without exactly coveting them. As beautiful as Nora had been, Nate’d loved the range and scope and _depth_ of her mind even more. He’d habitually started conversations about anything and everything just to hear her thoughts and theories spin-out. To watch that insightful-methodical mind _turn_ , with all the stately deliberation and orderly smoothness of any well-conceived and well-cared-for machine.

 

He’d not only admired Nora for that brilliance—and _many_ other things, such as her kindness and patience, and their shared love of puns and other terrible jokes—but he’d _adored her_ for it. _And_ for those many other things.

 

And until John Hancock, Nate’d never known anyone else who’d inspired those same relentless, barreling-down-into-obsession feelings. Let alone without pause or change, except for exponential accelerations of said feelings . . . and their range and scope and depth.

 

Once more, Nate silently apologized to Nora for the desperate whims of his lonely, despairing heart, and to John, as well, for greedy, improper, _selfish_ wishful thinking regarding the nature of their friendship. He apologized to them _both_ for the way he’d begun looking at John lately. Looking, and feeling for only the second time in his life as if the sore-sad muscle in his chest had been given a reason to keep beating.

 

By the time John’s laughter had tapered into sporadic, rasping giggles, he’d leaned away from Nate. The lessening of John’s noticeably intense body-heat made Nate shiver as he was faced with the chill of a barely-tolerable fall evening, once more.

 

Despite the tenor of his thoughts, he guiltily, covertly leaned closer to John to re-initiate the contact, telling himself it was mostly because his John-chosen Drifter-wear was sturdy, but not well-insulated. That purely-literal heat-loss was what drove him to seek John’s purely-literal warmth.

 

“You never cease to surprise and delight, Nate Bridges,” John finally said, sighing contentedly and looking down at his hands as if trying to solve them for _x_. After a few moments, he wiggled his fingers, shook his head, and sighed again. “I’ve never known anybody like you. Never meshed so easy and so quick with anyone—not ever. The more I know you, the less I . . . _doubt you_ , y’know?” With a there-and-gone, intently-narrowed, _firelight-glittery_ glance at Nate, John huffed. “Every new friendship or partnership has that honeymoon-phase, where everything’s all ice-cold _Gwinnett’s_ and five unopened packs of _Fancy Lad’s_. But since familiarity usually breeds contempt, even if just a little, that shine wears-off. Slow or fast, a lot or a little . . . it eventually wears-off.”

 

John paused expectantly as if awaiting agreement of some sort from Nate who—despite wanting to keep John talking until he spat-out what was bothering him—didn’t want to do his best friendly-duty by lying.

 

(And, besides not wanting to be a liar to his best friend, Nate was just shit at telling lies. He gave himself away instantly and increasingly, as he tried to keep the lies going. He hadn’t bothered to lie in any real measure—or for any reasons other than safety, or spur-of-the-moment white lies of kindness—since his mid-teens.)

 

So, Nate simply made one of his bland, pleasantly neutral faces and shrugged. John stared for a few seconds, lightly biting his lip, then nodded. “Well, ya don’t have to agree with me, brother—though, after a couple months on the road with yours, truly, I’d think you, of all people, would _jump_ to bear witness for that truth—but that’s been _my_ experience of people. Even of people I’ve . . . cared about.”

 

That’d been Nate’s experience, too . . . minus the caring-part. Before Nora, there’d been precious few people he’d cared for beyond a general sort of concern-for-my-fellow-human-being. But meeting Nora had turned Nate’s sepia-world into full-color—color that’d only gradated and shone more with the addition of Shaun.

 

Losing them had turned Nate’s world a uniform gray that, so far, only ever lightened around John Hancock. Or even just thinking about him. John was . . . a ray of rainbow colors that, with time and exposure, was allowing Nate to see the whole world in color, again. Sometimes randomly, sometimes briefly, but those glimpses of hue and tone and shade were what’d kept Nate going until Mama Murphy had confirmed Nate’s last hope that Shaun . . . Nate’s and Nora’s sweet baby boy, was still alive, somewhere. Waiting for his surviving parent to find him and _save_ him.

 

 _Waiting for_ that parent to heap a whole, _Christing fuck of a lot of suffering and murder_ on whoever had been suicidal enough to kill what Nate Bridges loved most . . . then, take the last, _precious_ little bit of love that’d remained, to do. . . .

 

Nate didn’t even want to think about what the kidnappers might have taken Shaun for.

 

As usual, to keep his mind steady and in one piece, he turned his eyes to the skies. To the stars and moon and wind, until light, dark, and frigid air blurred his already fuzzed vision. Until that unkind wind blew the tears from his eyes as if they were merely a reaction to weather.

 

The fuzz redoubled, for a moment, when Nate realized that for all his time spent rough-camping in the past half-year, he hadn’t once seen a shooting star. Not since a few years before the War. And sure, first stars were supposedly good for wishing, too. But everyone knew _shooting_ stars were a rarer phenomenon, thus more potent. More likely to result in wishes granted.

 

But Nate supposed the world had run out of wishes a long time ago. Definitely before the War. It _must have_ , to have lost its mind, heart, and soul so utterly as to push those buttons.

 

“ _You’re_ _different!_ ” John blurted suddenly, his tone and tenor changed: from brooding and pensive to firm and almost aggressive. The next look he shot at a startled Nate was definitely kind of annoyed: eyes narrowed again, spare mouth pursed and puckered, almost as if for a kiss. “ _Of course_ , you are. The Vault-Dweller. Hero of the Commonwealth. Savior of the Wasteland. Dedicated Family Man: Tirelessly combing the world for any clues to help him find the last of that family, but _still_ taking and making time to help make this shit world _better_. All while being the most amazing person I ever met!”

 

John’s tone was almost angry, now, and Nate hunched in on himself a bit, confused and tired and maybe a little hurt. “‘Amazing’ just means that a thing is uncommon enough to warrant notice. Like ‘different’ or ‘exception,’ it’s a qualifier that isn’t really a value judgment in any direction, without further detail or clarification. It can mean anything. Skunk-spray is an amazing scent, but not a good one. Mirelurks are amazingly hideous and creepy. The sight of a deathclaw or a supermutant still makes me wanna shit my pants an amazing amount. A cold _Gwinnett’s Stout_ is amazing on a hot day. If nothing else, it’s amazing that I’m still alive. For any number of reasons, my survival is . . . amazing.” Nate huffed a sound that could’ve been a laugh but probably wasn’t. “‘Amazing’ is . . . just a variable adjective. Just another sound that signifies nothing. Nothing at all.”

 

Falling silent, Nate could only laugh at himself for channeling Nora at her esquire-est. Down to the dryly pedantic and pointedly passive-aggressive trial-tone she’d perfected and frequently adopted.

 

 _Wouldn’t think I’d flunked my one PoliSci course in college, and mediocred my way through almost all my literature classes_ , he thought at Nora’s shade, half-convinced he could hear her throaty, sometimes adorably raucous giggles.

 

“See? Like I said. _Different_!” Another grumble and head-shake, and John muttered under his breath. “Always _gotta_ be different and an _exception_. Special, and like no one I ever met. Even the weird-ass things you say and the way you look at the world—even just bein’ my _buddy_! And _your shine_ doesn’t wear off—no matter what the ‘Wealth and the world throws at it. No matter what _life_ throws at it. No matter what . . . what _I_ throw at it. At _you_. You _never_ shine less, only _more_. Bigger. Brighter. _Purer_. Even covered in the dirt and blood and muck of the Commonwealth, you only _glow_ brighter and gleam _purer_ , and that’s . . . goddamn exasperatin’, sometimes. Unbelievable. _Intolerable_ , in some moments . . . though that’s nothin’ to do with who _you are_ and everything to do with who _I am_. Mostly, though . . . you’re just plain amazin’—even if that’s a bullshit word. _You_ ain’t bullshit. You’re . . . perfect. _Addictive as fuck_ , and I know a little bit about that sorta thing. How to get into _and_ out of a deep habit, no Addictol needed. Normally, anyway. But _nothin’_ about you or about _how you make me feel_ is normal. There’s no Addictol for it, either. And I dunno know how to tell you what’s on my mind without dancin’ further and further from the only thing that matters. I dunno how to _say_. . . .”

 

“What?” Nate asked around the throb in his throat that was his heart . . . relocated for some reason. He was reluctant to push John, but carefully did so, nonetheless, as well as leaning closer without subterfuge.

 

He both anticipated and feared what John needed to say so badly . . . but mostly, he, too, _had_ to know. To be put out of misery _or into it_ , so long as there was . . . _resolution_.

 

Too many things in Nate’s life had ended without resolution, never mind catharsis and closure.

 

He let his entire left side press against John’s to give and receive support, even as John turned his face back to the fire . . . in the dramatically shifting flicker of which, he was both mysterious and incandescent. Nate steeled himself, and chose his next words and tone deliberately. “You’ve trusted me with so much, John: who you are, who you _were_ , and where you’ve _been_. Yet you won’t trust me with whatever’s been eating you the past couple days. Been skimping on the Mentats, lately? Because I’ve seen you be smarter than _this_ fresh off a hangover,” he added in a calculated, but not unkind dig. John groaned, sounding more than a little nervous, himself.

 

“You know me too well, brother. Heh. Oh, hey—” he sat up straighter, but still managed to lean against Nate more than was strictly necessary. At least for just digging in the upper-right pocket of his _Walkin’-Jacket_ : an old, but well-made and sturdy leather duster the color of brushed gunmetal.

 

(It’d been a gift from Fahrenheit, given to John just before the Walk. He and Nate’d had been in John’s office in the Old State House, rechecking supplies and re-packing packs. Fahrenheit had stalked into the office without knocking, as usual, glowering and radiating a buzzing-angry restlessness. She’d shoved a bundle of folded leather at John. Then, with an exasperated huff for him and an opaque, but warning— _promising_ —freckle-nosed scowl at Nate, she’d stalked back out.

 

That’d been the last _Nate_ had seen of her, anyway. John had busied himself opening the bundle immediately. He and Nate had gaped at the leather duster for most of a minute. Then, John’d been out of his frockcoat and out the door, in a swirl of leather-scent and badass. When he’d gotten back, almost half an hour later, he’d been unusually silent and bemused. More so, after they’d left Goodneighbor, and he’d discovered something in the duster’s top-right inner pocket.

 

John hadn’t shared the contents of the brief note—on a stained, weathered scrap of paper—until well-after he and Nate’d left Boston behind:

 

**_Leeve the dum hat too un-less you want to be target practiss. Good luck._**

 

Handing the note back to John, Nate had pointedly eyed the _dum hat_ perched jauntily on his friend’s hairless head. John had smirked and shrugged. “Eh. She’s my kid, not the boss of me. I’da brought my lucky tricorn along, any-damn-way,” he’d claimed, grinning. Then he’d crawled into their tent, thanking Nate for taking the first watch. Nate, who’d offered to do no such thing, had shaken his head fondly at the muffled, now-homey sound of a Jet inhaler.)

 

“Here we go! _Now_ we’re cookin’ with nape and nukes!” John exclaimed.

 

Blinking his wistful way out of one of his few _recent_ good memories—nearly all of which featured John—Nate snorted and poked the leftover molerat-haunch with a stick. “Wow. That statement explains so much about the quality of tonight’s dinner.”

 

“Goddamn smartass. Let’s see _you_ do better, next time,” John replied, laughing a little as he removed a Mentats-tin from his coat. He shook it until the rattle was pronounced. Then he opened the tin and relieved it of two of its grape cargo, without breaking their gazes. Those big, pitch-black eyes seemed brimming and bright with too many emotions for Nate to sort in less than eternity-and-a-half, so he simply let his grin mellow into a wide smile and shook his head. John grinned back, seeming anxious and doubtful, even as he took not one of the Grape Mentats, but both at once.

 

Nate’s eyebrows shot-up. Clearly, there was a lot John needed to say and he meant to say all of it. The thought was both thrilling—Nate _always_ loved to listen to John talk, whether it was rambling or serious-stuff—and a little worrying. Especially since it didn’t seem as if John was taking the Mentats for _extra_ loquacity, but for any at all. For a verbosity, vocabulary, and eloquence he’d seemed to have run out of.

 

What on Earth could make _John Hancock_ run out of good words to express himself?

 

Nate couldn’t begin to guess. But _whatever it was_ , he was at least half-sure he didn’t want to meet it in a dark alley without his semi-automatic pistols and a grenade or two . . . and maybe John’s shotgun.

 

Still, no matter what, he intended to have John’s back until one or both of them were dust. And the certainty of that, of the only purpose and direction left to his life other than _find Shaun_ , made him smile, as it usually did. Big and unguarded and almost undentable. He was still smiling a good couple minutes of solid eye-contact later, when John’s nervous grin faltered into something a bit more thoughtful. Then it . . . _sharpened_ , somehow. Became both more confident and more self-castigating. Alert and self-conscious. _More_ anxious and doubtful, even as he leaned markedly into Nate, then rocked against him, as if punctuating a point . . . only to then scoot away. Not far, but far enough that autumn whistled between them, as lonely as the bitter night that lurked even a step beyond the firelight.

 

“Fuck. Ah, _fuck_. Here we go,” John said, soft and shaky, rolling his shoulders as if limbering up for a fight. “This oughtta be fan-damn-tastic and special for us both.”

 

“We don’t—you don’t have to do this, whatever this is, now. Or ever. You _don’t_ —”

 

“I do, sunshine,” John said, his smile gentle but pained. “Now belt-up, till I’m done. This is gonna be difficult enough without interruptions.”

 

The mild, but implacable tone of command in John’s raspy, warm-low voice made Nate tingle in places he refused to focus on, and shiver everywhere else. He belted-up, as bidden, and John took a few breaths, then spoke.

 

“You . . . are the coolest person I’ve ever known. Funny and smart and handsome—distractingly fuckable, if I’m honest—but most importantly, you’re . . . _lovable_. Incredibly, irresistibly lovable. By which I mean . . . _fuck_ , even with the damn ‘tats, the words ain’t _right enough_! Ain’t _good_ enough,” John groused, shooting a resentful glare at their fire and their well-done dinner for a few moments, before turning his bright-intent gaze back to a wide-eyed, no longer smiling Nate.

 

After some obviously measuring moments, during which Nate held his breath and let his confused, scared-hopeful mind go completely blank just to save his sanity, John sighed and . . . smiled. Tired and defenseless, somehow . . . but genuine.

 

“You’re not just lovable, Vaultie. You’re . . . the more I’m around you, the easier it is to believe you were _made_ for a guy like me to just . . . fall tail-over-tea-kettle for you and keep you forever. And by ‘easier,’ I mean it’s almost impossible for me to consider that you _weren’t_ made for a guy _exactly_ like me. By ‘a guy _exactly_ like me,’ I mean _me_. _Exactly me_. Even if there was another guy out there like me—and we _both know there_ _ain’t_ —I’d cut him a new smile before I’d let him make a move on you, because . . . because _you weren’t made perfect for him, but for_ me! _You_ were made for _me_. End of story. Which is . . . a crazy-ass, crazy-as- _fuck_ thing for me to think and believe and _know_ —and it’s fucking stupid, too. No one’s _made_ for anyone, it’s just that some people have good synergy. _Great_ synergy. And even if those people are few and far between, me gettin’ all aggro and grabby about _any_ one person, ain’t at all my style. Or wasn’t.”

 

John made a sound that was either a quiet laugh or a pronounced sigh and closed his eyes for a couple seconds. His shoulders sagged, but almost immediately squared. His exhaled breath was as sharp and gusting as the wind that quickly whipped it away. John took a deep, slow breath in and turned his face up to the stars for a few moments, letting their cool, ancient light bathe his face. When he opened his eyes and spoke, Nate still couldn’t cobble together a feeling other than numb, incredulous shock. Nor a thought other than a bit of old lyric and its half-remembered melody.

 

[Stars shining bright above you.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[Night breezes seem to whisper: “I love you.”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[Bird singing in the sycamore tree—](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[Dream a little dream of me. . . .](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

 

“It _wasn’t_ ,” John insisted, quiet and oddly fervent. Almost lost under the skeins of silken-bright song unraveling in Nate’s heart and memory. “Then, you come along, all bright and new and _beautiful_. And now . . . shit’s all upside-down and _fucked_ , six days to Saturday. But in a _good_ way. _And_ a bad way. But also, in _the best way_. I’m goin’ goddamn _crazy_ because you’re becomin’ the center of my life and you . . . you don’t even _know_ it. Don’t see it. Maybe . . . _probably_ don’t _want to see it_. And that’s . . . what I expect. It’s _what it is_.”

 

[Say, “nighty-night,” and kiss me.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[Just . . . hold me tight, and tell me you’ll miss me?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[While I’m alone, and blue as can be. . . .](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[Dream a little dream of me.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

 

Nate, sitting frozen and mute—barely even breathing or blinking, despite the rabbiting flutter of his nonplussed and flailing heart . . . and the churn of his semi-compromised stomach—finally managed to cudgel movement from himself, if not words. His hands twitched, lifted, then settled again. And still, there were no words in his mind or heart or soul. Only lyrics from a past that was now so distant as to be nonexistent, for all intents and purposes.

 

[Stars fading, but I linger on, dear,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[Still craving your kiss.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear. . . .](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

[Just saying this—](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8)

 

Shaking his head to free the haunting melody and its strangely ready-for-recall lyrics, Nate exhaled a practically punched-out breath. He blinked almost dazedly at John, who was watching him with keen-sharp eyes and unreadable intensity.

 

“You . . . you . . . _what_? John, I . . . _what_?” Nate’s head wasn’t spinning, but his entire reality—his understanding of it—certainly was.

 

His vision was crystalline in detail—always had been—but everything was both dream-haze blurry and glass-shards sharp.

 

As Nate continued to blink, John’s mouth twitched at the corners, neither up or down, smile or frown. “I’m sayin’ . . . I love you and I wanna be with you. Can’t say it any plainer than that, brother. And apparently I can’t say it too much more _fancy_ , even with twice the Grape-‘Tats.” He laughed, a bit rueful, but as usual, more amused than anything. “I dunno know a whole helluva lot about love. Before you, I only loved four people in my life: my parents—and my douchebag brother, once upon a childhood. And Fahrenheit. My folks are long-dead and my brother might as well be. I don’t even know much about lovin’ _Fahr_ , or how, even though she’s the only . . . she _was_ the only person left in this world who matters. The only person who I loved . . . at least, as best I was able.” He shook his head and returned that mesmerizing gaze to the small fire.

 

Nate could feel John’s rad-heat—and the resulting flush of his own body, caused by John’s nearness and heat—more than he could feel the campfire. Even when he held his chilly, ashy hands toward it, he barely felt anything but chill and wind.

 

Bright and leaping, but small and cold.

 

It felt like something Nate should make note of—a minor epiphany, but he couldn’t parse the meaning of it, if there even was any. . . .

 

“I’ve, ah . . . I’ve had, like, _six_ mayors’ shares of lovers, Vaultie. Even after I was ghoulified, gettin’ companions for the night wasn’t tough.” John shrugged, but smiled a little when he glanced at Nate. “I imagine there were at least as many reasons for gettin’ in bed with me as there were folks clamberin’ to do it. But I’ve never . . . I never got horizontal with anyone who I wanted to stay the _whole_ night, past sun-up, throughout the day, and then into the _next_ night. Repeat-till-forever. And I know we haven’t even done the deed, but I’m pretty sure I’d be in for the long-haul if you said the word. I’ve _never_ been in love with anyone, but that’s kinda what tells me I _must_ be in love with you.”

 

Nate was beyond gaping, and could only stare and stare, barely comprehending in any substantive way what his friend was telling him. And John wasn’t oblivious to Nate’s shock, but he hurried on, as if wanting to get everything out before he lost whatever extra bravery and blarney the ‘tats had given him. His eyes were wide-open and somehow . . . desperate. He kept licking his lips or biting the bottom one, and his normally smooth (for a ghoul) brow was deeply furrowed.

 

“This big, scary-ass feelin’ I’m carryin’ for you is deeper and more important than _anything_ I’ve ever felt. Even more important than _of the people, for the people_. It feels like synergy and attraction that’re tweakin’ on goddamn Psychobuff and After Burner. But, like, the high keeps getting _higher . . . forever_. And it’s pure and _powerful._ The realest shit, and I . . . I think you might be _killin’ me_ , sunshine. But what a way to go.” John pasted-on a cavalier grin as winning as any Nate had ever seen him wear. “If this love killed me tonight, right now, my only regret would be not gettin’ to kiss you. And, uh, not doin’ all the fun-stuff kissin’ usually _leads to_.”

 

And with that, his bright gaze swept down and back up Nate, radiating more heat than the campfire and his own irradiated body, combined. For the first time in weeks, Nate felt almost unbearably flushed with warmth. With _heat_. It was noticeably pooling in the pit of his stomach and his balls, like magma.

 

John cleared his throat and averted his eyes for a few seconds. Then he chuckled, sad and trailing, and shook his head. “These goddamn ‘tats got me chinnin’, tonight! I’m spillin’ enough _guts_ for _ten mayors_! Ha! But, ah . . . I’m not tryin’ to lay any kinda trip on ya, brother. I _know_ you got your plate full, with tryin’ to find your boy, and . . . you’re mournin’ that wife of yours.” He huffed with clear self-disgust. “I been flirtin’ with you since day-one, despite that. And you get all flustered and shy, like you like it. Like you _like_ _me_. So, I keep doin’ it because . . . you’re _gorgeous_ when you’re flustered and shy. But it ain’t _all_ just flirtin’ and teasin’, Nate. I . . . it _means somethin’_. And I ain’t ever courted anyone, not even Fahr’s mother, but I wanna court _you_. I wanna _take the time_ to earn your respect and affection and love. But only if . . . only if you think you might have those left to give, someday. If you could find some room in your heart for _me, too_. Someday. That’d be real nice, but, even if it don’t ever happen, you’re . . . still the _best_ friend I ever had, and I’m always here and _always_ in your corner. No matter what.”

 

By now, tears were running down Nate’s face. He swiped shakily at his cold cheeks and gritty-tired eyes, and looked away from his alternately doubled and trebled best friend. “John, I’m . . . so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I can’t . . . I can’t.”

 

But Nate didn’t even _know_ what he was sorry for. He didn’t _know_ what it was he couldn’t do . . . other than move on from the moment his entire world and everyone else’s had ended in a bright, burning flash.

 

Moving on from _that_ , however, would be . . . impossible. Inconceivable.

 

And even if it were conceivable and possible, it’d be _disloyal_. Not to mention the worst kind of infidelity.

 

All while he thought this, he didn’t have to be looking directly at John to know the normally proud, coat-hanger shoulders had slumped and the normally confident, big-bright demeanor had dimmed markedly. “Hey-hey, buddy . . . it’s okay. Really. I mean, _not really_ , but . . . ya don’t have to worry about sparin’ my feelings, brother. Unrequited love ain’t gonna break _John Hancock_. It might knock him down for a bit, but . . . he’ll get back up. Always does. Heh.” When Nate looked up at John, miserable and apologetic, John crooked an aching, but still amused grimace-smirk. Of course. “Y’know, from when I was little—barely walkin’ steady—whenever I had tantrums or couldn’t stop cryin’, but didn’t know why, my Ma . . . she used to say to me: ‘Cry it out or shout it out if you need to, sunshine . . . but _hold on_. [It’s only misery, love. It’s only ankle-deep](https://genius.com/16-horsepower-hutterite-mile-lyrics).’”

 

Struck even more numb and devastated—and shaken by wisdom from another woman who’d died too early, Nate hung his head again, still wiping at stinging eyes. “The world is miserable enough, John, and always has been. But it’s especially miserable _now_. And that’s even without any one person making it worse for any _other_ person. Going extra, like that, is . . . as you say, the _dick-est_ of moves.”

 

John let-out a startled snicker to hear Nate using one of his favorite phrases, his pained face shifting into easier, more relaxed arrangements of sinew and muscle. “Ah, sunshine, you’re _awesome_. So goddamn _sweet_. But, really, lookin’ like I look, it’s not like I expect hordes of lovestruck folks, especially fine-ass Smoothies like you, to be chasin’ after me with hearts in your eyes and marriage on your minds. I’m barely anyone’s cuppa tea, and I’m not blind to that.”

 

Nate snorted and said, as if his mouth had been taken over by the Ghost of Teen-Hood past: “That’s _one_ awful way the War hasn’t changed this world much, I guess. It’s still unkind to people with . . . _different skin_.”

 

After a minute of silence, but for the small crackle of the fire and the complaining yammer of the wind, Nate glanced over at John, to see him gaping and wide-eyed.

 

“There were . . . there were _ghouls, pre-War_?” he finally managed, more than half-doubtful. Nate forced a limp, fleeting smile.

 

“Nah. But . . . well, y’know how some people are pale-skinned, and some people are dark-skinned, and a lotta folks are something in between? Ghouls, included?” When John nodded warily, Nate dredged up another smile. “Back before the War, ah . . . well. People with browner skin were . . . treated differently. _Poorly_. Disliked, suspected, disenfranchised. Far too frequently, they were victimized—stolen from, had property destroyed, were beaten, chased out of towns or neighborhoods for walking, or even killed just because of the color of their skin. It was assumed that we were . . . morally and intellectually subhuman. Only three-fifths of an actual person, a few hundred years ago. Not human _at all_ , according to some.”

 

John blinked. Then blinked several more times, looking Nate over again, seeming _even more_ shocked and all suspicious. As if he thought Nate was shining him on. His response bore that out. “You’re shittin’ me . . . right?”

 

Holding up his rough, callused, dark hand—covered in myriad burns and scars from before and after the War . . . from emergency patch-jobs, welding, soldering, and occasionally catching live-current—Nate shook his head. “Nope. Not shitting you. I could tell some stories that’d make you physically ill.”

 

John’s next breath instantly whooshed right back out of him. “Damn, brother,” he said, looking up at the sky once more, as if the distant, indifferent stars might’ve had some answers despite having no givable fucks. “Shit, I can kinda get it with ghouls. We’re . . . not pretty. And _some of us_ go nuts and rip Smoothies to pieces. We don’t just _look different_ , we can sometimes _be dangerous_. Go feral, and no one knows why. The fear is . . . unfortunate but valid. Based on real shit. But . . . before the War, people with darker skin didn’t go around rippin’ folks apart, did they?”

 

“We made a habit of _not_ doing that, actually.” Quirking a commiserating grin at John, Nate leaned toward him again, not close enough to touch. But John, as hoped-for, quickly closed that hated distance. The warm pressure of his bony body was comfort, reassurance, and all the truth Nate had come to crave. It made a lie of things like loneliness, obsolescence, and even the first bite of winter in the night wind. “Communities were apt to lynch us—ah, chase us down then hang us from the nearest tree and sometimes have a community picnic while doing so—if they thought we’d smiled or winked at the wrong, uh, pale person. Whether or not we actually had. Mostly, we didn’t try to get even more on other folks’ or the law’s shit-lists. Our lives and deaths, happiness and misery were often at the whim of people who were waiting for excuses to brand us as immoral, inferior animals, so they could incarcerate us or put us down. Even in the army . . . it was tough sometimes. I had to be three times as good at anything I did, to get a fraction of the respect or notice other engineers got. Or to earn the brass’s confidence in my skills.”

 

John still looked startled—and disillusioned . . . as if he’d just been told an ancient, near-mythic utopia had actually been riddled and festering with plague and corruption—but more . . . sad, than anything. The arm he slung around Nate’s shoulders was strong and gathering. Fortifying and _keeping_.

 

“I ain’t _ever_ gonna be glad your old world got blown to Hell, brother, but . . . if the nukes took out crazy-ass horseshit like what you had to put up with . . . then at least they did _one_ good thing.” John nodded, grim and solemn, but with a somewhat rueful smirk. “‘Course, _now_ , people do that shit to _ghouls_ , or try to. Even when they’re mayor of a town—and _damned good_ at that mayorin’.”

 

Nate found a smile, and settled under John’s arm, and in the scents of leather, autumn, grape ‘tats, and incinerated molerat. “Like I said: I guess the world really hasn’t changed all that much.”

 

“Nope. So help me, though, despite the way that hate-fear shit’s just shifted focus, instead of disappeared . . . I’m glad that this world is . . . better for _you_ , in that one way. I’m glad nobody gives a fuck what color your skin is, now. Except to drool over how gorgeous and smooth and _touchable_ it is.” John swallowed audibly, and Nate did, too, also noticing that John was not only very, _very_ close, but getting closer, still, all grapes-and-leather scent. His eyes were like the sky above, black and twinkling, but far from indifferent. “Though . . . I don’t really want ‘em doin’ _that, either_. ‘Look, don’t touch’ is dandy as candy, but tons of lookin’ don’t make a body _not_ wanna touch. ‘Least, it ain’t ever-yet made _me_ not wanna touch.”

 

“You—” Nate cleared his throat to get rid of a squeak that might have been deeply mortifying in another, less-distracted moment. In a moment where John’s endless-dark eyes weren’t suddenly his entire world. “You . . . _look at me_? Tons?”

 

John nodded once, slowly. “Kinda goes hand in hand with bein’ in-love with ya, brother. Dunno which came first, though: You bein’ so lookable because I’m in love, or me bein’ in love ’cause you’re so lookable. Prolly doesn’t even matter.”

 

Nate’s eyes wanted to widen in surprise even as they started to flutter shut in expectation of what was sure to be a kiss . . . but he growled, frustrated—wounded—and turned his face from John’s, all-but near tears.

 

“I loved Nora so much, John. Still do. _Always will_. And maybe . . . maybe I’ll always feel like half my soul died with her, too. Maybe . . . maybe that’s only right, and the way it should be.” Nate wiped at his eyes again, growling once more when the back of his hand came away wet. Then he glared at their cheerful-plucky little fire. “ _I loved her so much_ . . . and I _miss her so much_. I miss how funny she was. That she had so much energy and hope and life. I miss how fucking _smart_ she was—I’d never met anyone with a mind like hers . . . so keen and quick and agile . . . but she was _kind_ , too. Sweet and yeah, _goofy_. And awkward. So, _so_ lovable. And . . . and _likable_. I’d never liked anyone half so much. Including myself, most days.”

 

He risked a quick look at John, just long enough to note the gravity and attentiveness in those night-sky eyes. To see patience and concern and caring that seemed close enough to bottomless as to make no difference.

 

Nate couldn’t bear that look, that gift, that _esteem_ for too long.

 

“This world is awful. With one hand, it killed my Nora. Took my son. Damn-near killed me, too, more than once. And then, with the other hand . . . it gave me someone else. A friend who’s funny and has more energy and hope and more of a _zest for life_ than I ever expected to find in a world like this. And he’s not just smart—not just keen and quick and agile. He’s kind. And sweet. And _goofy, too_. And _awkward_ more often than he’d ever want to admit. For all those reasons he’s _likable_ . . . and I do. I _like him_ . . . so very much. Just as importantly, I love him. _I love him_. Far too much to act on that feeling and wind up hurting him because my heart has confused the _best_ person I know, with the best person I _once knew_. Or confused loneliness with real, true love. I don’t . . . _I won’t_ . . . turn him into a placeholder or substitute in my heart. I won’t fit him into my late wife’s role to shore myself up. Won’t _dishonor_ the two people who matter most by making them interchangeable.” Nate nodded, certain of this, if of nothing else. “I . . . I couldn’t be so selfish as to accept a heart given, until I could be sure that _my own_ was whole enough and available enough to complete that exchange. If it ever could be.”

 

Nate, unused to saying so much in one sitting—at least about himself and his feelings, rather than work or his own performance at it—fell uncomfortably silent. And that silence sat like a weight between himself and John, fraught with Nate’s regrets and his meandering, yet paltry explanation of himself. With every weighed-down, infinitely broken bit of Nate, and everything he’d once hoped for, and dreamed of getting and keeping.

 

“I’m sorry,” he tacked on more than a minute after he’d fallen silent, his voice choked and creaking, “sorry that I’m not—” more, better, _whole_ “—enough. I’m sorry that I may never be. _Enough_ is the very least you deserve. You deserve _the world_ , and a better one than the only world any of us’ve got left.”

 

For a few minutes after _that_ , the only response was from the determined fire and the whisper of wind-tossed branches. Finally, John chuckled. Then, he leaned in close again, not quite touching Nate. Or, he wasn’t until his dry-tough fingertips brushed Nate’s right jaw, then slid left-ward, to his chin. Then he turned Nate’s face toward his own and, after a considering pause, stroked up to Nate’s cheek: hesitant and trembling, at first . . . then admiring and absorbed.

 

When Nate at last found the courage to meet that starry-night gaze, John was smiling—no, _beaming_. The caress of his fingertips was wondering, and almost worshipful.

 

“I was _right. Fuck_ , sunshine, your skin’s even smoother and more touchable than it looks . . . how’s that even _possible_?” he asked, not quite rhetorically, but Nate sure didn’t have any answer. Especially not when John’s thumb-tip brushed across his bottom lip slowly, as if savoring the sensation.

 

That touch and all that it implied broke Nate’s brain. He honestly couldn’t tell which of them was shivering harder or what on Earth was meant to happen next. What _could_ happen next, that life and the world— _mere existence_ wouldn’t break down like tides dissolving sandcastles at a beach.

 

“I guess this clinches it, huh?” John chuckled again. “Just when I didn’t think it was possible to want you more—to _love you_ more, you say: ‘hold my Bobrov’s Best, buddy,’ and make a goddamn fool of me. But after what you just said . . . Jesus, sunshine, I’ve never been surer of _anyone_ in my whole life. Never had fewer reservations about trustin’ someone and lettin’ ‘em have the kinda power over me you’ve had since nearly the beginning.” He sighed, his gaze flicking to Nate’s mouth, then back up. He beamed even bigger and brighter. “Me bein’ in love with you’s been a given for a while. But now . . . now, I’m _glad_ I’ve got such a heart-on for you. Glad because I got no more doubts. Glad that my heart was fucking _right_ , straight-out the damn gate. Glad that I was lucky enough to fall for the best person I ever met and that . . . he just _might_ be _fallin’ back_.”

 

Nate blinked, and a few more straggler tears falling from his wet, sore eyes as his mouth struggled for words his brain wasn’t having any part of. John’s smile turned small, tender, and fond, and he brushed Nate’s tears away. Then, he leaned in, closer than ever. _Too_ close, and not nearly close enough.

 

“John, I. . . .” Nate breathed, barely more than a husked whisper, and John hummed, sounding utterly content. “I _can’t_. Not yet—maybe not _ever_. . . .”

 

But then, John’s mouth, as spare and dry as the rest of him, pressed Nate’s. Light and tentative, at first, then more firmly, and with puckers and whispers . . . and the parting of surprisingly supple lips. Then John’s tongue—slightly dry, but precise—darted out to test the seam of _Nate’s_ mouth. The contact caused instant tingle-chills in Nate’s lips and face, and _flares of heat_ in . . . other places.

 

Just as John had clearly figured Nate wouldn’t be participating, and decided to end the kiss by sitting back, Nate made a soft, desperate sound and _surged into_ the kiss. He parted his lips and leaned heavily into John, who made a startled, but pleased sound low in his throat. Then he braced Nate against his side and held him close with one arm tight around Nate’s waist, chuckling into their kiss as Nate moaned and whimpered and _melted_. As Nate _fought_ to hold-on to this shooting star-wish of a moment and commit to memory the bittersweet, grape-berry Mentats-taste of John’s mouth.

 

To _brand on his soul_ the heated, slightly parched texture of John’s lips, tongue . . . and the exposed flesh that surrounded them.

 

To _never_ be free of the stunning, blunt-force proof and certainty that John’s cheek, the line of his jaw, his chin, and parts of his throat _tasted_ of autumn, too. And of leather, salt, and smoke.

 

With seeming delight and patience, John calmed and tamed Nate’s frantic, ravening expression of passion to something more in keeping with the skill, reverential relish, and mono-focused _determination_ of his own. And when he eventually ended the kiss with several yearning-promising-lingering busses, Nate’s lips no longer merely tingled . . . they ached. And _burned_.

 

Like his wet eyes, his throbbing dick, and his racing heart . . . Nate’s touch-starved, kiss-swollen lips _ached_ . . . and burned.

 

John, meanwhile, had leaned their foreheads together. He was so warm and ridiculously _right_. His breath puffed soft and hot and berry/grape-y on Nate’s trembling mouth.

 

“As bad as I wanna devour you, sunshine, I wanna do this . . . do _us_ right. I want your heart _free_ . . . not free of Nora, but of the doubt and regret and despair tryna swallow you whole,” he whispered, the twitch and brush of his lips stoking fire in every inch of Nate’s body. Then, John sat back just enough to make eye-contact. His gaze was bright and piercing and unshielded . . . beautiful. “When you’re ready to be _mine_ , Nate, I’ll be waitin’. But I want _all_ of you. And I’ll wait as long as I have to, to make that happen, and still count myself the luckiest sonuvabitch in the ‘Wealth, when it does. Get me?”

 

Nate shivered and gasped in breaths that only just kept him from passing out but didn’t feel sustaining, otherwise. “I . . . _John_. . . .”

 

But John just chuckled once more, his coarse-tender fingers finally dropping away from Nate’s jaw. A moment later, John’s sinewy-supple, leather-tough fingers were linking with Nate’s own and their palms pressed together. Once their fingers locked tight, John lifted their hands up to face level, then sat back.

 

Autumn whistled between them again, a chilly, uncouth interloper, and Nate nearly swore. But John was staring at their hands, and turning them every which way with admiration and satisfaction. He did that until Nate looked at their hands, too: his own was an unremarkable burnt sienna in color (gone unfortunately ashy), and very much darker than John’s faded-russet.

 

“Yep, sunshine,” John said, with smug and sexily confident finality. And when Nate met his gaze again, John smirked, sultry and rakish. “I’ll bet [_all_ our colors agree in the dark](https://genius.com/16-horsepower-flutter-lyrics). Ain’t a cap made I _wouldn’t_ put on _that bet_.”

 

Then—after a wink and a meaningfully held squeeze of Nate’s fingers—John disappeared into their tent _fast_ , with a playfully purred: “Thanks for takin’ first watch, Vaultie.”

 

It seemed like the world’s best-done, but most poorly-timed and ill-suited magic trick. Yet Nate still smiled. It was _John_. So, _of course_ , he smiled.

 

“Sweet dreams, ’til sunbeams find you,” he absently murmured—half-sang. “Sweet dreams that leave all worries . . . far behind you, John.”

 

And long after the familiar, homey sound of a Jet inhaler had faded to silence, then to John’s mystifying, nose-less snores, Nate sat a wakeful, but distracted first and second watch. Brooding, and caught between banked, but barely diminished _heat_ and the encroaching, aggressive bluster of barren-chilly autumn, he watched the moon steadily ascend then watched the fire nearly die, before feeding it again.

 

By the time the moon set and the stars faded . . . when false-dawn brought the first hints of dew to the air and Nate’s chilled skin, the strains of the ancient song— _the lullaby_ _Nora had lovingly sung_ to a fussy Shaun on their first night home from the hospital, and almost every night up until their last in the old world—had finally faded to nothing again. To a white noise of exhaustion and numb despair. To the autumn wind whipping-up the fossilized dust that remained of his once-whole heart.

 

By the time stark, sterile sunbeams found _Nate_ again, the exhaustion and the wind-swept dust had scoured his soul _clean_ —scoured it _empty and serene_. . . .

 

. . . at least until evening fell again.

 

#

 

_One as precious as the other—_

_They go with me._

_Today, I am not a false conscience,_

_A tyrant._

_Angels line my pockets, dear._

_I walk a Hutterite mile._

_Look at me, this once—_

_Put an eye to my step._

_Look and furrow._

_It's only misery._

_It's only ankle deep._

_It is no mystery._

_I know my way from here._

—Sixteen Horsepower, “[Hutterite Mile](https://genius.com/16-horsepower-hutterite-mile-lyrics),” _Folklore_

 

 

 

_“What do you want from me?_

_Would you have me your prisoner?”_

_“No, but you must give us that horse._

_You must give us that roan-gray horse.”_

_“Listen, he ain't for sale._

_Never for the law to ride._

_If that should happen, none would be safe._

_Even the birds—_

_Even the birds_

_Would be afraid to fly.”_

_So, they ask again: what was my name?—they ask again . . . what was my name?_

_And two were dead before they could move—_

_Two were dead before they could move._

_“That's my name._

_That's my name,_

_If you please._

_That's my name._

**_“That's my name._ **

**_If you please.”_ **

—Sixteen Horsepower, “[Outlaw Song](https://genius.com/16-horsepower-outlaw-song-lyrics),” _Folklore_

 

 

_Stars fading, but I linger on, dear,_

_Still craving your kiss._

_I’m longing to linger ‘til dawn, dear,_

_Just saying this:_

_“Sweet dreams, ‘til sunbeams find you._

_Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you.”_

_But in your dreams,_

_Whatever they be,_

_Dream a little dream of me._

—Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, “[Dream a Little Dream](https://genius.com/Ella-fitzgerald-and-louis-armstrong-dream-a-little-dream-of-me-lyrics),” _Ella & Louis For Lovers_

 

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> **Thanks :**
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> To [Ashcroft_Writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashcroft_Writes), my person from another person <3 Check out their beautiful Male Sole/Hancock piece, [Strong Hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268114), which directly inspired this fic. Also, dive into their chaptered SoleCock, [Rot, Dust, and Steel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16389698/chapters/38363093), because it is FABULOUS. And, after sixteen chapter devoured by yours, truly, I can honestly say that it, too, inspired this piece directly.
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> **Sources & References for this fic:**  
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> [Nukapedia](https://fallout.fandom.com/wiki/Fallout_Wiki)
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> [A Profile of Hancock - Two Minds in One Man - Fallout 4 Lore](https://youtu.be/d13FuoTugBM?)  
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> ‘[‘Hutterite Mile](https://genius.com/16-horsepower-hutterite-mile-lyrics</a)’ lyrics  
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> ‘[Outlaw Song](https://genius.com/16-horsepower-outlaw-song-lyrics)’ lyrics
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> ‘[Dream a Little Dream of Me (Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong)](https://genius.com/Ella-fitzgerald-and-louis-armstrong-dream-a-little-dream-of-me-lyrics)’ lyrics
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> **Powered by :**
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> Sixteen Horsepower’s album, [Folklore](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLD41A016771C80B05), on repeat. But especially the first two songs, ‘[Hutterite Mile](https://youtu.be/1imr82BnUbU)’ (SO Hancock) and ‘[Outlaw Song](https://youtu.be/TkrXAexStys)’ (So NATE . . . all-damn-day, though I haven’t quite unpacked how, yet :)
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> Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s ‘[Dream A Little Dream Of Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8),’ from the album, _Ella & Louie for Lovers_. Kind of Nate’s song for Nora.
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> [TUMBLES with the bug](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)! And [PILLOWFORTS with the bug, too](https://www.pillowfort.io/beetle-comma-the)!


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